His name is Booker, and for the longest time, he felt defeated.

He was told there was no such thing. That a woman could never rape a man. That something like this could never happen to him and that he obviously wanted it just as much as she did. That he was the problem, not her. But he didn’t see how he could’ve wanted the same thing she did when there was a pit in his stomach after it happened. When he feared for his safety every single time he was left alone. He spent his time dealing with feelings of blame.

Day after day of hearing this over and over, day after day being silent about what happened to him, Booker decided to tell me. Booker is a long-time friend of mine. When I was younger, I oftentimes hung out with my older brother’s friends, and Booker happened to be one of them. Despite being four years older than me, we’ve maintained a healthy friendship for years. If there’s anyone I feel I can discuss heavier topics with, like politics or religion, it’s Booker. And if there’s anyone I would believe to be honest about something with me, it’s Booker.

“Men don’t get raped. You’re supposed to be the stronger gender. There’s no such thing. It just doesn’t happen.”

That’s a short list of things Booker was told when he finally took the step to speak up to someone, just one person, about what his girlfriend had done to him one night at a party. He believed his parents would be the first people he should tell. He figured they would take his word into account more than anybody in the world.

“You’re the man. You wear the pants in the relationship. How could you let this happen to you?”

That’s the first thing his father said when he brought up what happened. No pity, no sympathy. No offer to help him.

Even his close friends, who also had every reason to trust him, shunned him and laughed in his face.

“Yeah right. As if that could happen.”

When Booker came to me, I’d known, judging by his quiet behavior, that something was up. But I didn’t fully understand until he called me in tears and told me what happened between sobs. He told me that no one believed him.

I’ve always believed rape is one of the worst crimes you can commit. I’ve never excused it. I knew men could get raped, despite what some people think. I get it — statistically, it happens more to girls. And, most of the time when it’s reported, the perpetrator seems to be male. But this isn’t every case.

As Booker told me of the ordeal,  I couldn’t tell if I was more horrified by the rape itself or the fact that no one did anything about it. But–let’s be honest–I wasn’t shocked. Not even in the slightest. The gender stereotypes that men are supposed to be the stronger ones and women the weaker have been rampant throughout history. But women are capable of committing the same atrocities as men. And men are capable of being the victims. The roles can be and have been reversed.

Men rape men and women. Women rape women and men. Rape is not discriminatory to gender. In an ideal world, it would never happen at all. But it can happen to anyone.

The men who are not helped–the men who are told to shove down the trauma–are struggling. If they tell people what happened to them, they get told they’re liars. If they keep it to themselves, they’re dealing with an inner turmoil. Every victim–male or female–deserves someone to stand by them and support them every step of the way to recovery.

Eventually, Booker did get help and court justice for the crime, but the memories still linger. His former friends are still doubtful. He struggles to campaign against victim blaming and show people the truth about rape culture. His past still follows him, but he’s now running an anti rape culture blog to help show people on the internet its horrors.

I want to live in a world that passionately stands up for every victim. We could make the world a better place because of it.  I encourage everyone to fight until the world finally understands that raping someone, no matter the gender, is inexcusable.